the Monk rose up from his stone and began to descend the narrow path
that led to the House of the Sons of St. Francis. But he dared not let
his eyes rest on the flowers sleeping on the surface of the pools, for
he saw in them the likeness of the wanton nymphs. He got back to his
cell at the moment when the bells were sounding the _Ave Maria_. It was
a small, white chamber, furnished simply with a bed, a stool, and one of
the high desks writers use. On the wall a mendicant friar had painted
years ago, in the manner of Giotto, a representation of the holy Marys
at the foot of the Cross. Below this painting, a shelf of wood, as black
and polished as the beams of an ancient oil-press, was covered with
books. Of these, some were sacred, others profane, for Fra Mino was a
student of the classic poets, to the end he might praise God in all the
works of men, and blessed the good Virgil for having prophesied the
birth of the Saviour, when the bard of Mantua declares to the Nations:
_Jam redit et Virgo._[1]

[Footnote 1: Now the Virgin too returns.]

On the window-sill a tall lily stood in a vase of coarse earthenware,
for Fra Mino loved to trace the name of the Blessed Virgin inscribed in
the gold dust of the flower's calyx. The window itself, which opened
very high up in the wall, was small, but the sky could be seen from it,
blue above the purple hills.

Ensconced in this pleasant tomb of his life and longings, Mino sat down
before the narrow desk, with its two shelves at top, where he was
accustomed to devote himself to his studies. Then, dipping his reed in
the inkhorn fastened to the side of the little coffer that held his
sheets of parchment, his brushes, and his colours and gold dust, he
besought the flies, in the name of the Lord, not to annoy him, and began